


This isn't the way

by write_in_ice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Crying, F/M, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Pining, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_in_ice/pseuds/write_in_ice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows his life would be easier with Molly. Molly gets a taste of what she's desired for so long...but knows it's not to be.</p><p>Part of a fic I gave up on, set after HLV. Maybe someday I'll try again. For now I wanted to share this little scene. I love the idea of Molly being Sherlock's rock and knowing him better than he knows himself, or at least more than he wants to admit about himself. (see...what I write isn't always horrible...)</p><p>As always, comments are extremely helpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This isn't the way

Molly found Sherlock perched on the edge of the sofa with his hands steepled under his chin. His eyes were fixed on a point on the wall, unblinking.

“Sherlock?” she asked, moving cautiously into the room. The ties of her housecoat dragged across the floor. He didn’t move when she sat down next to him. “Did...did you sleep well? Did you sleep at all?”

“You should call your landlord sooner rather than later. The pattern of water damage forming your on living room ceiling suggests a leak coming from the flat above. You can tell by the slight discolouration of the wallpaper behind your grandmother’s plant stand that it has been going on for some time, but the fact that that is has dried indicates the leak has not been consistent.  The darker colouring in the right corner suggests that the leak has begun again and matches the damage in both the bathroom and outer hallway. The tenant upstairs is either a far worse plumber than he believes himself to be or building maintenance is terrible at their job. Either way your landlord should be notified or you should move.”

“So, not much sleep, then?”

 “A little. Sofa’s a bit lumpy.”

She smiled and folded up his blanket. “Yeah, I’ve been told that. Haven’t had house guests in awhile.”

“Since Tom.”

“Since Tom.”

“But Tom, rarely slept on the sofa.”

“Sherlock—”

Without warning, he kissed her. His hand hovered for a moment before clumsily finding her shoulder. She shifted her weight, sliding onto his lap and let the sensation take over. His lips were softer than she’d imagined-sweet, but hesitant.  Gone was the cold facade, and yet there was still something distant. She wanted to enjoy it, to revel in his touch, to let the fantasy take over, but she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t right.

She opened her eyes as he moved his hand across her thigh. There were nights alone when she had imagined it: His nimble fingers playing across her skin like his bow on the strings of his violin, his dark hair slicked back against his neck with sweat, the deep tones of his voice whispering in her ear. Instead, she found herself wondering what he was thinking. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if holding on to something much too tightly. Tension ran through him as he kissed her neck. Every movement was kind, but there was something missing. Passion, she realized. Heat.

His body was trembling as she took his hand. He didn’t look up as she kissed his lips and pulled away.

“This isn’t...” She brushed her hair away from her face and adjusted her nightgown. “You know this isn’t...”

 “I’m sorry, Molly.”

The words shook her. Sure, he’d said the words before, but this time was different. His voice quivered. Sherlock Holmes was many things but vulnerable was not one of them.

He brought his hands to his lap and chewed on his lip. Usually she could see his mind working, trying to figure out some puzzle behind his stern visage. This was different. She could see all of it on his face. His eyes were damp.  His cheeks were flushed. She’d never seen him look so...human.

“Oh, Sherlock.” She frowned, leaning her head against his shoulder.  “It’s okay, really. It doesn’t take a genius to see...to see this isn’t what you want... who you want...” She sighed, forcing a smile. “How about I make us some tea and...”

That’s when she noticed the tears.  The tiny stream took her breath away. Sherlock Holmes, the great Sherlock Holmes, a man they all thought was unbreakable, a man who had faced death more than once and walked away, was crying. He let the tears fall and made no motion to stop them as they dripped down his cheeks and soaked into the collar of his nightshirt.  “Oh, Sherlock...” She whispered again, pulling him close until his head rested in her lap. She brushed a lock of his hair over his ear as he tucked his legs against his chest. He was trembling now, wracked with emotion some believed he didn’t possess. Molly gently stroked his cheek and rubbed his back. They sat like that for what felt like an age. She wondered how long it had been since someone had touched him so gently, had seen him so exposed. 

“My mother used to do that.” He murmured, shifting his position.

“I bet she’s a lovely woman.”

“Actually she’s an insipid moron.” He cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. Molly could see the mask returning. Piece by piece he began to rebuild. His voice steadied. “A tedious woman, with an illogical infatuation with the American folk dancing, and an appalling taste in musical theatre.”

“Is that you talking or your brother?” she asked, patting his back.

 Sherlock averted his eyes and said nothing. The look of sadness was fading, hidden by straightened shoulders and a stern jaw. He was becoming Sherlock again. The detective. The machine.

“He’s wrong you know.”

“Mycroft is never wrong. A fact of which he thoroughly enjoys reminding me.”

“Loving people isn’t a weakness, Sherlock. I know you think I’m just some silly...thing...and maybe I am. Falling for completely uninterested men; convincing myself that if I do just one thing differently, maybe this time it’ll all work out. But, it doesn’t mean I’m going to stop wanting to be happy.” She paused. “You can be happy.  I know you care about us.  At John’s wedding—

“Don’t.”

“Let Mycroft live in his cold, lonely world. You can have more than that.”

“Excuse me if I don’t take advice from a woman with a penchant for Sociopaths.”

“You’re not a sociopath, Sherlock. Not really. You feel too much. You might not let on, but you do.”  He sat silently. Thinking, he was always thinking.” Well, um...How about I make us that tea?“


End file.
